A couple of weeks ago I was spurred into a writing frenzy in
the midst of worship. I know, I know…I
should have been sitting quietly with my hands folded in my lap listening
intently to the word of God proclaimed.
But anyone who knows me at all also knows that’s not me. Instead, I was sitting in judgment and
pondering my own issues of faith.

What I heard on that morning was a song about escaping to
land far way, somewhere far off where the singer will meet Jesus and the
streets will be paved with gold, or something like that. In other words, it was about escapist
theology. Now, I understand that we all
need to escape sometimes. We need a way
to step beyond what is our current existence and move into a place that, well,
isn’t so hard to take. Even those of us
who have been blessed in life with all of the extras and haven’t had to wonder
where the next meal is coming from or whether our children will have coats in
the winter, enjoy a good escape from the constant demand of life. I get it.

We no longer live in a society where it is normal to spend
an hour in the evening sitting on the porch reading a book, or dare I say
it … just sitting on the porch doing nothing at all. Shoot, many of our homes don’t even have
porches any more. We are so busy running
our kids back forth, checking our Facebook, or watching the latest episode of
Breaking Bad (which I really enjoyed by the way) that we have forgotten what it's like to sit back and take in a deep breath of calm and comfort.

Ok. I don’t want to
sound all self-righteous because I am as bad as the next person in this
arena. While sitting still is not at all
my forte, escapism is one of my finer points. I appreciate the art of denial
which allows me to live in a world I create rather than the one God
created. Even so, here comes my issue
with escapist theology: we are not meant
to live in any world except this one. We
have been put in this world to share the love and grace of God in Jesus Christ
to the best of our abilities, not to run away to some beautiful island “where
all the women are strong, the men are good looking and the children are above
average”—oh, wait … that’s Lake Wobegone.

For me, this means that my presence even at my worst, and
even at the world’s worst, counts. It
counts toward a growing expression of love in a world that fills up too quickly
with hate.

It counts for the addict who
comes to treatment and discovers someone who cares about her as a person, not
as a junkie.

It counts for the alcoholic
who is able to find footing because someone was available to listen and to hold
his hand when the cravings seemed bigger than him.

It counts for the child who doesn’t get hugs
at home, but can get one at school from a teacher who loves them just because
they showed up.

It counts for the hungry
family who leaves a feeding ministry with a box full of dinners ready to be set
on a table.

It counts for me…because I
know that someone is in this world
living the good news of Jesus Christ to share it with me.

If we spend all of our time trying to escape our reality—in
a hurry to get to heaven—aren’t we missing the point? I’m afraid I might miss Jesus completely if
I’m always looking for him in a better place than where I am right now.